The Dog Days of Charlotte Hayes Read online

  I ask Mama if I can go over to Grace Walters’s house after school tomorrow.

  She’s changing Justin Lee’s diaper, and she stops mid wipe. She shoots a puzzled look my way and says, “I don’t know any Grace Walters.”

  “The new girl,” I say. “The one that lives in that big brick house on Vinton Road.”

  “Well, now I know where she lives, but I still don’t know her family. I’m not real sure I want you going over there. At least not yet.”

  I couldn’t believe it. “It will be all right,” I say. “They’re rich.”

  She frowns. “What does that matter?”

  “Mama, please!” I say.

  Mama sighs and shakes her head no.

  “But why?”

  Agnes comes into the room. “What are you bothering Mama about now?” she says. “Can’t she change Justin Lee’s diaper in peace?”

  “Mama won’t let me go over to the new girl’s house. The one on Vinton Road.”

  “Oh, I love that house!” Agnes forgets about scolding me for a moment and clasps her hands together. “It looks like it belongs in a magazine!”

  “But I don’t know anything about the family,” Mama says firmly. She picks up a freshly diapered Justin Lee. He winds a chubby hand around her hair and pulls. She says nothing further, just untangles her hair from his clutches. I can tell the discussion is over as far as she is concerned.

  Luckily Daddy walks into the room. He had gotten off work early. Some kind of breakdown in equipment at the ball bearing plant that needed to be fixed, he says, so they sent everyone home except for the repair crew. He overheard the last thing Mama said. “You don’t know anything about what family?” he asks.

  Mama explains, and he ends up coming to my rescue. Just so happens that his boss is a real good friend of Grace’s dad. Daddy has even met Mr. Walters a few times, so Mama finally relents.

  With that settled, Daddy scoops Justin Lee up and starts swooping him through the air while making airplane noises.

  I feel like swooping through the air, too. Beauregard is on his way to being saved, I’m sure. I figure Grace and her parents will be coming to get him maybe in a day or two. I need to get him gussied up!

  “Mama, can I use the garden hose to give Killer a bath?” I ask.

  Mama eyes me suspiciously. “Why do you want to give him a bath?”

  Daddy interrupts his verrrrrooom-rooooming, causing Justin Lee’s plane engine to come to an abrupt standstill. “The fleas, remember?” he says.

  “Yeah. I thought a bath would be a good idea because of the fleas,” I say quickly.

  “Oh, that reminds me, I got Killer a flea collar. The package is on the countertop in the kitchen. Put it on him after you’re done.” Mama yawns, looking like she could fall asleep on the spot.

  “Mama,” Agnes says, “why don’t you and Daddy go out to dinner tonight? Just the two of you. I’ll watch Justin Lee.”

  “That sounds like a good idea,” Daddy says. He hands off Justin Lee to Agnes like it is a done deal.

  But Mama shakes her head no. “I’m a mess. Don’t even have the energy to fix myself up. Besides, I’ve already gotten some hamburger out to thaw for meat loaf.”

  “Well, I’ll just keep Justin Lee busy for a while before dinner then,” Agnes says.

  “And heck, I can fix the meat loaf,” Daddy says. “Just a little ketchup, Worcestershire, and bread crumbs mixed in with the hamburger, right?”

  “There’s eggs, too. And onions.” Mama doesn’t look like she quite trusts Daddy’s cooking abilities but agrees to go ahead and get the recipe out for him.

  So with Agnes looking after Justin Lee, Daddy putting together meat loaf, and me with plans to get Beauregard all spiffy, Mama will have a quiet house and alone time for a bit. Maybe that will be even nicer than dinner out.

  I run upstairs to the bathroom. Lined up on the bathtub edge we have baby shampoo, Daddy’s Head & Shoulders for dandruff, Mama’s generic discount stuff, which I also use, and Agnes’s strawberry essence. I decide on the strawberry essence. Wouldn’t hurt if Beauregard smelled scrumptious too.

  Soon I’m spraying Beauregard with cold water from the hose. I’m surprised he isn’t straining at the chain to break away since a lot of dogs don’t like baths, but he truly seems to enjoy getting all wet. Probably a relief from the heat. Once he is dripping water from head to tail, I squeeze out a good amount of strawberry essence and work it in. He stands there patiently as I rub away, soap foaming up from between my fingers. He looks like a bubbly abominal snowman. Then he starts to shake. Blobs of white froth come flying at me.

  “Just who is giving who a bath?” I ask, laughing.

  He stops shaking, becomes still as a statue, and gives me a look like: Who me? What did I do?

  I rinse him off, take a beach towel to him, and then stand back to admire how white his white patches look and how shiny his dark patches are. Then I sniff the air around him.

  Strawberry essence.

  Perfect.

  Chapter 5

  As soon as I’m done with Beauregard’s bath and come into the kitchen, I find Daddy sticking the meat loaf into the oven. Mama is reading a magazine at the table, and I wonder if she did more supervising of the meat loaf than reading. Since the meat loaf will take a while to cook and there’s time before dinner, Daddy announces he’s going to hit up a yard sale going on down the street. I ask if I can tag along, and he says, “Sure.”

  Usually you think of women sorting through used clothes and jewelry or hunting for antiques, but Daddy loves yard sales more than anyone I know.

  Mama just looks at the two of us as we head out the door and shakes her head. Daddy always manages to bring home something interesting when he visits a yard sale. Unfortunately most of the time interesting equals useless, and our closets, cabinets, and garage are bursting at the seams with his “finds.”

  “Maybe I should bring Killer?” I say as soon as we get outside. “The walk would help him finish drying off from his bath.”

  “He’s too big for you to handle,” Daddy says. “He’d end up dragging you or getting away. He could run out in front of a car and get hit.”

  “You could take him then,” I say. “He won’t get away from you. You’re strong.”

  “I need my strong arms to carry things home from the yard sale. Who knows what all we’ll find?” he says, his voice full of hope.

  Daddy puts his arm around my shoulder and hums a silly country song until we reach a house with tables set up outside and stacked high with what looks like junk: paperbacks, pans and skillets, flower pots and vases.

  “All the good stuff is probably already gone,” Daddy mumbles. “Should have stopped here during lunch, but I offered to make a grocery run for Mama; we were out of laundry detergent, and she had to do a load. Oh, well.”

  Daddy picks up a cordless drill and inspects it. Now Daddy already has a cordless drill, one that works perfectly fine. “Eight dollars,” he says. “Bet I can talk them down to five.”

  I take a gander at the stuff on the table behind Daddy. “Hey, look, oil paints!” I say.

  Daddy puts down the drill and turns around. “That’s interesting,” he says. He picks up one of the tubes of paint and studies the cardboard sign taped to the table: LEARN TO PAINT FOR $15.00—INCLUDES OILS, CANVAS, AND BOOK.

  “Kind of expensive, though, don’t you think?” He puts the tube down and flips through the book like he’s still considering purchasing the items but then shrugs and goes back to inspecting the drill again.

  Someone moves in next to me, and a woman’s voice yells, “Will you look at that, Drew? Oil paints! The how-to book is atrocious. People call that art? But the oil paints are top-notch and barely used. Plus there is blank canvas, too. You know what I would pay for all that at an art supply store? Over a hundred dollars. Easy! I can’t believe they’re only asking fifteen!”

  Daddy spins around, and I take a good look at who the voice came from. It’s a well-dre
ssed woman in a summery, flowing, flowery dress and hat. And the man with her has on dress slacks and a shirt with a fancy emblem. His hair is all slicked back. Out-of-towners, my best guess. The woman is eyeing the items on the table, her chin cupped between a finger and thumb.

  With what happens next you’d think Daddy had suddenly donned a Superman cape. He swoops in and grabs the oil paints, canvas, and book as if he’s on a mission to snatch a child from the window of a burning building.

  The woman starts to sputter but can’t quite get her words out she is so shocked.

  “Come on, Charlotte, let’s go pay for these,” he says, his arms full.

  I’m dreadfully embarrassed by Daddy’s behavior. My cheeks feel all hot and pink, but at the same time, I can’t help smiling a teeny bit. I’ve always wanted to learn to paint with oils. At school we just have babyish yellow, blue, and red finger paints, or the cheap watercolors that come in a little strip. These are the real deal.

  After dinner Daddy clears a small empty space in the breezeway, just enough room for a person to stand. There are three empty canvas pieces he purchased, and he props one up on the windowsill, turning it into a makeshift easel. I watch from the doorway, interested but just a little disappointed. I’d sure like to use those paints myself, but apparently he has a creative streak he needs to satisfy, too.

  He opens the book and reads for a few minutes. “Supposed to use a palette to mix paint colors.” He frowns. “Heck, there are eight tubes here, and the colors look fine to me. Why would I bother mixing them?”

  Daddy thumbs through the book and finally settles on a page. “This looks good,” he says more to himself than to me. He grabs an old wood chair with a broken-back spindle from the corner of the breezeway and lays the opened book on it.

  I walk over to see what he has picked out to paint. Given Daddy’s sense of humor, I expect poker-playing dogs. But it is a pretty picture of colorful flowers arranged in a yellow vase.

  “Think Mama will like this?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “She’s been saying for a long time that she wants to find something to hang on the wall over the couch.”

  “That will look nice,” I say. Since Daddy is doing this for Mama, I force myself to swallow the disappointment I’ve been feeling over not being able to use the paints myself. With Mama being down in the dumps, I’m all for anything to make her feel better.

  “Do me a favor, Charlotte. I need turpentine to clean the brushes, it says. Go out to the garage. I should have a can stored under my workbench. I need an old towel, too.”

  I go after the towel first. The linen closet is upstairs, across from the bathroom. Mama is running water for Justin Lee’s bath, while he sits on the floor beside her, chewing on a hard rubber rattle in the shape of a horse.

  I poke my head into the bathroom. “Daddy needs an old towel to clean paintbrushes with.”

  “Should be a dark green one, has a few holes in it. Give him that one.” Mama puts her fingertips in the water, gauging the temperature. She shakes her head. “I can’t believe he bought paints. Of all things.” She doesn’t sound too happy.

  “He’s painting a picture for you,” I say, trying to cheer her up.

  But she just stares at me blankly and starts undressing Justin Lee.

  Daddy used to make her laugh. Even when he wasn’t trying to be funny, she found him amusing. Like when we went to Cousin Bernadette’s wedding and half the people there were doing a line dance called the hustle. Daddy was so proud he knew all the steps that he was extra-exuberant in his dancing, but he went left when he should have gone right and ended up starting a chain reaction that knocked a whole row of people down. Mama laughed so hard she ended up on the ground, too, even though she wasn’t in the line that fell over like bowling pins.

  Mama has always been firm and strict. But underneath it all she had a sense of humor that somehow always managed to shine through. It’s been forever since I’ve seen a true smile on her face, not just a hint of one. I think the last time was in response to Justin Lee giving his first smile. She was so excited about that. But it was almost like when he began smiling, he stole all her smiles from her. I know Justin Lee is not to blame, though. Agnes told me it has something to do with Mama’s hormones after giving birth.

  I rifle through the linen closet, looking for the towel. Worrying about Beauregard is bad enough. But I’ve got Mama on my mind, too. I find the green towel with holes and tuck it under my arm. At least Beauregard shouldn’t be a concern much longer. He’s clean, shampooed, scented, and ready to go. Pretty soon he’ll be living the high life with Grace Walters.

  I head for the garage in search of turpentine.

  Chapter 6

  The next day Luanne and I sit with Grace again at lunch. I try to get Grace talking, but when I ask her a question, she only gives one-or two-word answers and seems to be hypnotized by her fork. Luanne keeps on looking longingly at our old lunch table, where Roxanne, Madison, and Becca sit gabbing away. I’d rather be sitting there, too, but Beauregard is counting on me.

  Mrs. Walters happens to be blond and pretty, like Grace, except I notice her teeth are perfectly straight in front. Maybe she had braces like the ones Grace is going to get. I settle into the leather seat of the green SUV she’s driving. It smells fresh and clean and perfumy, and I breathe in deeply. Our car is littered with Justin Lee’s Cheerios and smells faintly of cigarettes. Daddy bought the car—for a good deal, of course—from a cousin of his who chain-smokes. Mama tried airing it out by driving with the windows open, but the smell still lingers.

  Mrs. Walters keeps the drive from being too quiet by asking me all kinds of things: how long I’ve lived in Greater Oaks (forever), what my favorite subject is (art, which unfortunately we only have once a week), where my parents work (Mama at home; Daddy at Greater Oaks’s only factory, Denmar’s ball bearing plant). I mention Daddy’s boss’s name, and she says how he is a good friend of theirs and how he was the one who told them about the property on Vinton Road for sale. How they wanted to move from Pittsburgh, PA, to a place in the country, and since Grace’s dad was some sort of consultant, they were able to relocate wherever they wanted. Grace just stares out the window through all this. I don’t mention Beauregard. Yet.

  I walk inside the front door and stand under the big gold chandelier, resisting the urge to let a big “wow!” escape.

  I’ve never seen a house like this before. The living room to my right is bigger than the whole first floor of my house. Heavy stuffed furniture in greens and golds and reds fills it up. It’s a king-size house fit for a king-size dog, I think happily. Plenty of room for Beauregard.

  All at once a huge shaggy black thing comes bounding out of nowhere and nearly knocks me over. I steady myself, and for a moment I get real concerned about my plan. They already have a dog! But then I eye the cavernous dining room to my left. Heck, this place could house a whole passel of dogs, no problem.

  Grace kneels and greets the dog. She asks him to sit and shake and he promptly obeys. “He’s really smart,” she tells me proudly.

  Mrs. Walters bends over and hugs the black dog. He gets all excited and starts jumping around, then stops and leans against her leg. She laughs. “Did you miss me, Figaro? I wasn’t gone that long.” She hugs him again.

  I take this as good news. Grace and her mom obviously like dogs! All I have to do is give them my sob story about being allergic to Beauregard, and he’ll have a new home in no time.

  Then it occurs to me. I should be sneezing right now if I’m allergic to dogs, since Figaro is near me. But if I start sneezing because I’m allergic, then I’ll have to leave. Which means I won’t have a chance to talk to Grace and her mom about Beauregard.

  Hmm…maybe instead of me being allergic, I can just say that Justin Lee is. That would actually be even better because he is a helpless baby. More sympathy involved.

  “Nice dog,” I comment. I really don’t want to pet Figaro any more than I want to pet Beauregar
d, but I do anyway. I smile and do my best to pretend that petting dogs is something I truly enjoy. He starts leaning against me, like he did with Mrs. Walters earlier.

  “We have a dog at home. A purebred Saint Bernard. Very friendly,” I say. “Gentle as can be. And so handsome! It’s such a shame we have to sell him.” I shake my head and give my best mournful look.

  “Why do you have to sell him?” Mrs. Walters asks, falling right into my trap.

  “Oh, my baby brother is deathly allergic to dogs. Doctor said we have to do something right away. We keep the dog outside now, but that isn’t enough. Justin Lee still has trouble breathing.”

  “Oh, that’s so sad,” says Grace. “I’d about die if we had to sell Figaro.”

  “You know, I’ve always loved Saint Bernards,” Mrs. Walters says wistfully.

  I smile real big, and it’s all I can do to keep from hopping up and down with excitement over how things are working out.

  “I’d buy him in a minute, but I’m afraid I’m terribly allergic to dogs, too.”

  My heart skips a beat as I try to register the words I’ve just heard Grace’s mom utter.

  Figaro leaves me and goes over to Mrs. Walters, nudging her hand for some more attention. She pats his head. “Figaro, here, is as close to hypoallergenic as a dog can be,” she says. “He’s a labradoodle, a cross between a Lab and a standard poodle. If bred right, they don’t shed. Maybe if you find a home for your Saint Bernard, I can give your parents information about the breeder we got him from. You do have to be careful with who you buy one from; not all Labradoodles are shed-free.”

  I stand there, my mouth gaping open.

  “Grace, why don’t you be a good hostess and show Charlotte your room?” Mrs. Walters says.

  Grace suddenly looks kind of panicky and shy, but she goes ahead and leads me up one side of a double curved stairway with a dark wood banister. When we get to her room, we just stand there staring at each other.